Merci, Mon Amour (9)
by dylannhyland
Summary: June 2013. "What do I do?" Sherlock's voice was urgent. "What would you do if you were stranded?" John snorted. "Have a wank, probably." "Have a - oh. Oh. John, you are brilliant." Sherlock's stranded in a blizzard & about to die of boredom. Fluffy smut from Sherlock's POV. Part of my Never Once Failed series. Update: I've now included a chapter 3 entirely in English.
1. Chapter 1

_"Help me, John"_

John's stomach dropped and his blood ran cold as he read the text. Sherlock _never _asked for help directly. He fumbled with his phone, dialling Sherlock's number. With every ring, his heart rate rose until it was thudding in his ears. Sherlock had been away for a week, investigating a triple murder in Greenland. John had been unable to go with him due to his commitments at the clinic, but Sherlock had kept him updated via text. They had caught the culprit yesterday, and Sherlock was due to fly back to London this evening. Why would he need John's help now? John could only conclude that something had gone terribly wrong. Five rings, and Sherlock had not yet answered. "Jesus, Sherlock, pick up!" Two more rings, then he heard the familiar voice on the end of the line.

"John."

"Sherlock, what's going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm going mad, John, there's a blizzard, flight's delayed, no electricity, I can't leave the house and I don't have any cigarettes!"

Relief and then understanding dawned on John. Sherlock was staying in a private cottage, the only place available in the village where he was investigating. He was bound to get bored quickly now that the case was solved, as he hadn't taken his violin with him and had nowhere to do any experiments. If the power was out, he couldn't even watch telly to distract him (not that it usually did much good anyway), and if the weather was awful enough to stop him leaving the house, he couldn't even go to the village to deduce people or buy cigarettes to take his mind off the boredom. _Oh, bugger._

"What do I do?" Sherlock's voice was urgent, frustrated. John could tell he was pacing the room, his coat flaring and sweeping with every turn as though he had an audience. Sherlock so _loved_ to be dramatic. "What would you do if you were stranded?"

John snorted sheepishly. "Have a wank, probably."

"Have a - oh. _Oh._ John, you _are _brilliant." And he hung up without further ado.

John shook his head as he lowered the phone.

* * *

_It should have been obvious_, thought Sherlock. Since beginning a romantic (he hated the word's connotations of soppy-eyed damsels, but it was the only descriptive term that fit, really - damn the confinements of the English language) relationship with John, he had discovered that pleasures of the flesh were an exceedingly potent antidote to his mental anguish; a nepenthe, of sorts. Since December there had been far fewer arguments and many more salacious groans and indecent sighs between the walls of 221B. John had always been within reach, though, so it had never been necessary to clear his mind solitarily.

He hadn't done this since he was in his teens; he had decided early on that it wasn't worth the brain space, just as he had with social niceties, the solar system and romance in general. He paused for a moment. _I suppose the most effective way would be to remember a particularly satisfying encounter. _He closed his eyes. In his mind palace, he made his way to the "John Watson" room. This room was particularly comfortable; the walls lined with mahogany panels, soft light floating in through a bay window and John's armchair situated in the centre of the floor. He proceeded to the cabinet drawer labelled _"Shared Sexual Encounters"_ and opened it. He rummaged through the files until he found the one he sought. The first time John had taken him for his own, back on New Year's Day. _Excellent._ He opened his eyes, shed his coat and suit jacket, and settled himself on the bed.


	2. Chapter 2

On New Year's day, Sherlock had awoken an hour before dawn. He wouldn't linger in bed usually, but today he had savoured the warm comfort while he waited for John to stir; he wanted to be there when John woke up. He arranged himself into a comfortable thinking/waiting position: lying supine, fingers steepled beneath his chin. Last night, John had returned from New Year's Eve drinks with his work colleagues (Sherlock thought such an outing sounded vile, personally - he had spent the evening in the company of his violin; infinitely more agreeable than the macrology of people who only associated with one another because they happened to work in the same building) with something fierce in his eyes. He barely had time to set down the instrument before John had grabbed him by the lapels and was dragging him to the bedroom.

John had blinked sleepily as he stretched, and frowned confusedly when he saw Sherlock next to him. "You're not usly here when I wake up," his voice was still slurred with sleep, and the viscous sounds were endearing. He didn't bother moving but for a small curl of his lips. "Happy New Year, John." John had frowned further at the greeting, seemingly still remembering the date. Sherlock continued on casually, "I believe I left you rather wanting last night. I would apologise, but you only have yourself to blame; you were the one that insisted upon incapacitating me so." Sherlock's eyes opened and met John's, and he raised an amused eyebrow. John's eyes had widened, then, and Sherlock could practically hear his own howls of pleasure bouncing around in John's head as the memories of last night resurfaced. It had been extraordinary indeed - John had pinned him down at the hips and worked him with his mouth alone, bringing him to the brink of orgasm over and over _("S'il vous plaît, John, s'il vous plaît, vous me tuez si vous ne finissez pas cela maintenant!")_ before actually letting him come. When John had finally granted him release, he had screamed - actually screamed, writhing and sobbing and pulling at the bedsheets like a deranged animal - and passed out almost immediately afterwards from relief and exhaustion. He was still somewhat numb below the waist. It was most likely that John had attended to his own needs in the shower before going to sleep.

John had blushed as he remembered, and Sherlock saw his pulse quicken as it beat beneath the skin of his throat. Perfect - the memory was enough to rekindle his arousal. He had thrown the covers back and rolled over, so that he was half stretched over John's legs. His lips met the sliver of flesh that was showing between the hem of John's pyjama shirt and his pants, and he hooked his tongue under the waistband before pulling the pants down with his teeth, just as John had done to him last night. John's sharp inhale told Sherlock the doctor found the sight just as erotic as he had. He had made short work of John's erection, sucking and lapping and moaning deeply around his length as John shuddered and tangled his fingers in his hair. Soon, John was cursing and moaning his name as his come flooded Sherlock's mouth. He swallowed what he could and licked John clean of the rest, giving the doctor a few minutes to recover. When John had gathered himself, Sherlock returned to his pillow, on his back again. Their fingers tangled loosely between them and John's toes brushed the dorsum of Sherlock's foot.

"Got any New Year's Resolutions?" Sherlock asked with an amused smirk. John had huffed out a laugh. He knew Sherlock asked in jest, as neither of them believed in the significance of a new year. "Well, if I did, it just got wiped from my brain. How about you?" Sherlock smirk grew wider. "Yes, in fact, I do." John raised an eyebrow quizzically. "Really?"

"My resolution is to be the receiving partner of anal penetration, preferably by the end of the day if it would be amenable to you - and I _know_ it is, your browser history gives me more than enough evidence to conclude _that_. The only real question is whether you'd like to _before_ or _after_ you pick up your phone from your receptionist. I received a message from her last night saying you'd left it at the table and you're welcome to drop by any time today to collect it."

John's eyebrows had shot up before he burst into laughter. "Jesus, Sherlock you've got a way with words, talk about matter-of-fact," he chuckled as he leaned over to kiss Sherlock's raised brow before he rose and gathered some clothes from their now-shared dresser. "I'll go pick up my phone and some groceries while I'm out, give the old libido some time to recover, but I'm sure I can help you fulfil that particular resolution when I get back." Sherlock smirked again, his eyes following the way the morning light fell over John's naked legs and buttocks as he walked into the bathroom to shower.


	3. Chapter 3

Listen to this while you read this chapter. You'll thank me.

www dot youtube dot com/watch?v=zXDQ-QliMJI

Also, if you only speak/read English, know in advance that this chapter contains quite a lot of French (which is rather important to read). I've included an entirely English duplicate of this chapter in the next chapter. Sorry it's taken so long, I've been meaning to add it for ages.

Regardless of if you read the English chapter, though, make sure you go back and read this chapter with French again - like Sherlock says, English is far too coarse. ;) He can say things in French that he couldn't say in English.

And finally, big thanks to Akaly who did the translations for me!

* * *

Sherlock shifted into a comfortable position, lying with his back on the bed. He undid his shirt, recalling how John had moved each button between his fingers. Two fingers would slip beneath the placket, stretching the buttonhole open enough for his thumb to slide the button free. The fabric fell open, and as it whispered over his nipples the friction sent minute shivers radiating outward. John had stopped for a moment, fingers splayed and tracing the grooves between his ribs towards his navel. Sherlock imitated the touch himself. He was surprised to find himself shuddering in response, the electricity rolling from his ribs to his spine down to his feet and groin, and up to his neck. _Just like when John did it. This may actually work._

John had traced his fingers from sternum down to the line of Sherlock's trousers, and up again, and down again. His eyes had flicked up to meet Sherlock's, a wry smile on his lips. _"You look like a marble sculpture of a bloody Greek god, or something."_ Again, Sherlock found himself shivering in response to his own hands. He closed his eyes, remembering in vivid detail the way each nerve sent bolts of pleasure through his skin. _Such a simple touch, John. How is it that you know the precise way to derail me?_

John had shifted his weight back to the middle of Sherlock's thighs to allow him room to pop open the button and divest Sherlock of his trousers and pants. His erection was claret and heavy against his stomach, and John had ran just a finger up his length. Sherlock did the same now, and a small sigh curled in the back of his throat. He was just as sensitive now as he had been then. John had met his gaze as he lowered himself between Sherlock's legs, and the tip of his tongue had met his frenulum, just pressing. Sherlock slicked his forefinger with his tongue and pressed it, just as John's tongue had, to himself. _Oh._ His eyes flew open, his lungs inflating. _This is definitely going to work._ The pleasure made his hips jerk and he felt his temperature rise. _This is more than biology, John._

He licked both palms of his hands, ensuring they were wet with saliva for what John had done next. He hadn't broken eye contact with Sherlock until the last moment when his angle necessitated it. His lips enveloped Sherlock, sliding down his length. Sherlock encircled himself tightly with one hand after another, imagining that the slick warmth was John's mouth._ Oh, dear God._ A short, sharp moan escaped his parted lips. _Oh, John._

John had bobbed between his legs for about a minute, taking Sherlock as deeply into his throat as he could and extracting deep, raw moans. Then he had changed his technique, flicking his tongue softly on the frenulum every time he withdrew, and Sherlock's fingers worked himself accordingly, his hips thrusting minutely into his hands, his eyes screwed shut as he remembered. _Oh, John, how can I find words for this? English is far too coarse, the sounds are so ugly. Français peut se rapprocher - Magnifique ? Délicieux ? _He had tested the words aloud, his voice strained and thick with lust. _"__Tu es magnifique, John, c'est délicieux.__" _John's reaction had been instantaneous. _Oh, c'est évident que tu aimes quand je parle français ; la façon dont tes yeux se ferment plus fortement et dont tes gémissements vibrent autour de moi est divine. Mais ce bonheur est au-delà des mots, John. Seule une mélodie pourrait le décrire__. _His breathing was laboured now, his toes curled, and he caught his bottom lip in his teeth to muffle an escaping moan that rumbled in his chest. _"Oh, mon amour."_

John slid off, began removing his own clothes while Sherlock observed, regaining some control over his breathing. The soft afternoon light played over his hands as though it were syrup. It illuminated his knuckles as he pulled open his shirt, and then flowed over his chest and scar, painting John in honeyed tones. He had shifted forward as he moved to lower his jeans. The light had danced over John's face then, catching his irises and turning them molten. Sherlock had stopped breathing in that moment. No bodily function could be more important than committing that image - John's eyes painted aruluent by the light - to memory. And _God_, he was glad he had taken the time now.

John had returned to the bed, and brought Sherlock's knees up so that his feet were planted and spread. He came up to Sherlock's face to kiss him, slow and burning, their tongues dancing. Sherlock could feel himself sliding from a man of science into a creature that craved only touch, as a deep moan rolled up out of chest and onto John's lips. Hands in hair, tongues on throats, _est-ce cela qui catalysait les symphonies de Beethoven ? Wagner ? Tchaikovsky ? Ont-ils, comme moi, trouvé que les mots sont inadéquats ?_ Sherlock couldn't really recreate that now, so he settled for brushing his fingers over his inner thighs, where the hair on John's legs had tickled him while they kissed. _"Sherlock, wait. I haven't done this before and I don't want to hurt you, I need you to tell me if I'm doing something wrong, okay? You sure you're ready?"_ The slight quaver in John's voice vibrated against Sherlock's lips on his throat. The depth of John's care spread a saccharine warmth through his chest, and the news that this experience was unexplored for John, too, sent something more primal down his spine. He hadn't yet been John's first time for a carnal act. _"__Oh John, je suis prêt depuis trois ans.__" _He had sucked John's finger into his mouth as his hand encircled John's length. John's reaction, as always, was delicious. His head dropped to Sherlock's shoulder, his hot breath puffing out over Sherlock's pectoral with every stroke. John's erection was hot and solid and the skin was silken to the touch as Sherlock pumped and pulled and twisted with his fingers. _Ressens-tu aussi cette musique, John ? Ta peau chante-t-elle à mon contact ?_ Sherlock was already sucking his own finger between his lips, his tongue coating it in slick saliva, just as it had to John's. John had collected himself (_"Oh, Jesus, alright, point taken,")_, pulled himself back and pressed his slick fingertip gently against Sherlock's entrance. His other hand had soothingly stroked back and forth across Sherlock's thigh, sending electricity dancing across his skin. His sphincter involuntarily widened and contracted around the finger now in the same way it had then. It was a selcouth sensation, and soon his finger was buried to the knuckle. He withdrew enough to allow a second finger to enter, opening himself in the same way John had opened him. _"__J'aime la manière que tu as de m'ouvrir, comme si j'étais un cadeau que tu attendais depuis longtemps, John."_

John's hand had returned to gently stroking Sherlock's erection, and now the shivers of pleasure were constant and his breathing was shallow and uneven. _Chaud. Brûlant. Tendre. Douloureux et divin__._ He didn't bother to quieten his sigh. _"__Plus, John, s'il te plait."_ John had obliged, pushing deeper and curling his fingers and _Oh!_ His body bucked now just as it had then, the intense bolt of pleasure shooting up his spine when John hit his prostate, a million nerves singing at the touch. _"__Oh, John, je suis prêt, je t'en prie, maintenant !"_ He didn't know if he was speaking the words aloud or if they were still in his head, so lost was he to the memory. John had withdrawn his fingers, slicking himself liberally with lubricant. He watched how John's eyes rolled up a little with that touch, and something twisted sensuously in his navel, he ached with need. _Tu comprends, pas vrai, John ?_

Sherlock was pumping himself in earnest now as he remembered the feeling of John's head slipping just inside him, and how his hot, heavy length had filled him slowly, allowing him to widen. John's face had been exquisite. His lips slightly parted, his eyes gently crinkled by a smile and locked on Sherlock's as he held the detective's face tenderly. Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's hips, the other foot tracing down the back of John's thigh. _Encore et encore, John, tu me montres que le sexe est bien plus que tout ce à quoi je pensais._ He gritted his teeth and fought the urge to let his own eyes roll back as the hot, sweet sensations sent shudders rolling through his body, his hands grasped John's shoulders and neck as he brought their lips together again with a moan. _Si un étranger observait mon corps demain, John, il verrait mes lèvres gonflées, mes cheveux ébouriffés et les suçons que tu m'as laissé. Il verrait les bleus sur mes hanches, là où tes doigts me maintenaient. Il ne connaîtrait pas la mélodie qui se matérialise à ton contact. _When John was completely inside, Sherlock had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and John had moaned and thrust involuntarily. _Oh, juste là. C'est toute l'existence._ Sherlock groaned brokenly through his teeth and ground desperately up and down against John, his long fingers digging into John's back and hips, his skin sliding tightly around John's length, and all sanity was relented, they were both animals lost to the sensation, nothing but moans and grunts and deep thrusts and the sweet melody of lust. Both of them were developing a sheen of sweat, and everything was hot and slippery and he panted the words into John's lips, tongue, jawline, throat, _"__Tu as fait de moi un adorateur du feu, John.__Ce feu ne peut pas être décrit avec des mots, seulement avec un hymne. Penses-tu que je peux traduire cette musique ? Oh ! Elle est bien mieux que n'importe quelle mélodie que j'ai jamais écrite. Comment commencerait-elle ? Ungh - tes gémissements et les miens acciacatura - gnfh - de même que notre chair ?__"_ Sherlock's fingers found his prostate _again and again_ just as John's length had, hot and heavy, and he was definitely moaning aloud now, and his right hand stroked and twisted in time to John's rhythm, he was losing all grip on reality and the melody in his head was soaring, _"__Oh, John, tu vas me rendre sourd ; ce crescendo est trop fort, trop intense, trop exquis, s'il te plait John, j'y suis presque, je t'en prie-__"_

Sherlock's desperate pleas had undone John. The doctor came apart with gasp and a groan, and Sherlock could feel his every twitch and involuntary shudder inside him, John's teeth sunk into his shoulder, it felt like a claiming, he truly was John's now, _oh, là, il est- _he was coming harder than he ever had before, wave upon wave of pleasure rolling through his body and spilling between their chests, and the melody in his head was shimmering, soaring as he gasped for air, his hands gripping John's hair for dear life and his thighs shivering and squeezing around John's hips. They stilled, panting and locked in a tight embrace, and then there was silence. _Un silence béni et exquis._

Sherlock opened his eyes, and the empty cottage rematerialised around him, the fire burning low in the grate sending light dancing across the ceiling. His head was blissfully quiet, and his heartbeat was slowing along with his breath. He made his way to the shower, where he cleaned himself off and stood under the scorching spray for a few minutes. _John, tu es merveilleux__._ When he realised he was nodding, his eyelids becoming heavy, he turned off the water. He tumbled back into bed and typed a text to John before succumbing to a deep slumber.

* * *

John's phone chimed again. The message made him chuckle as he realised that Sherlock had been thinking about New Year's Day.

_"Merci, mon amour. I still need to write that melody down. S."_


	4. Chapter 4

Listen to this while you read this chapter. You'll thank me. www dot youtube dot com / watch?v=zXDQ-QliMJI

Here is a chapter with translations for the French in chapter 3! It's a duplicate of chapter 3 but entirely in English. Sorry it's taken so long, I've been meaning to add this for ages.

Italic are thoughts, bold italics are French. Hope you enjoy! After you read this, though, go back and read the chapter with French again - like Sherlock says, English is far too coarse. ;) He can say things in French that he couldn't say in English.

* * *

Sherlock shifted into a comfortable position, lying with his back on the bed. He undid his shirt, recalling how John had moved each button between his fingers. Two fingers would slip beneath the placket, stretching the buttonhole open enough for his thumb to slide the button free. The fabric fell open, and as it whispered over his nipples the friction sent minute shivers radiating outward. John had stopped for a moment, fingers splayed and tracing the grooves between his ribs towards his navel. Sherlock imitated the touch himself. He was surprised to find himself shuddering in response, the electricity rolling from his ribs to his spine down to his feet and groin, and up to his neck. _Just like when John did it. This may actually work._

John had traced his fingers from sternum down to the line of Sherlock's trousers, and up again, and down again. His eyes had flicked up to meet Sherlock's, a wry smile on his lips. _"You look like a marble sculpture of a bloody Greek god, or something."_ Again, Sherlock found himself shivering in response to his own hands. He closed his eyes, remembering in vivid detail the way each nerve sent bolts of pleasure through his skin. _Such a simple touch, John. How is it that you know the precise way to derail me?_

John had shifted his weight back to the middle of Sherlock's thighs to allow him room to pop open the button and divest Sherlock of his trousers and pants. His erection was claret and heavy against his stomach, and John had ran just a finger up his length. Sherlock did the same now, and a small sigh curled in the back of his throat. He was just as sensitive now as he had been then. John had met his gaze as he lowered himself between Sherlock's legs, and the tip of his tongue had met his frenulum, just pressing. Sherlock slicked his forefinger with his tongue and pressed it, just as John's tongue had, to himself. _Oh._ His eyes flew open, his lungs inflating. _This is definitely going to work._ The pleasure made his hips jerk and he felt his temperature rise. _This is more than biology, John._

He licked both palms of his hands, ensuring they were wet with saliva for what John had done next. He hadn't broken eye contact with Sherlock until the last moment when his angle necessitated it. His lips enveloped Sherlock, sliding down his length. Sherlock encircled himself tightly with one hand after another, imagining that the slick warmth was John's mouth._ Oh, dear God._ A short, sharp moan escaped his parted lips. _Oh, John._

John had bobbed between his legs for about a minute, taking Sherlock as deeply into his throat as he could and extracting deep, raw moans. Then he had changed his technique, flicking his tongue softly on the frenulum every time he withdrew, and Sherlock's fingers worked himself accordingly, his hips thrusting minutely into his hands, his eyes screwed shut as he remembered. _Oh, John, how can I find words for this? English is far too coarse, the sounds are so ugly. French may be closer - __**magnificent? Delicious ?**_He had tested the words aloud, his voice strained and thick with lust. _**"You are magnificent, John, this is delicious."**_ John's reaction had been instantaneous . _**Oh; it's obvious that you like when I speak French, the way your eyes close tighter and your moan vibrates around me is divine.**__**But this bliss is beyond the spoken language, John. Only a melody could describe this.**_ His breathing was laboured now, his toes curled, and he caught his bottom lip in his teeth to muffle an escaping moan that rumbled in his chest. _**"Oh, my love."**_

John slid off, began removing his own clothes while Sherlock observed, regaining some control over his breathing. The soft afternoon light played over his hands as though it were syrup. It illuminated his knuckles as he pulled open his shirt, and then flowed over his chest and scar, painting John in honeyed tones. He had shifted forward as he moved to lower his jeans. The light had danced over John's face then, catching his irises and turning them molten. Sherlock had stopped breathing in that moment. No bodily function could be more important than committing that image - John's eyes painted aruluent by the light - to memory. And _God_, he was glad he had taken the time now.

John had returned to the bed, and brought Sherlock's knees up so that his feet were planted and spread. He came up to Sherlock's face to kiss him, slow and burning, their tongues dancing. Sherlock could feel himself sliding from a man of science into a creature that craved only touch, as a deep moan rolled up out of chest and onto John's lips. Hands in hair, tongues on throats, _**is this what catalyzed Beethoven's symphonies? Wagner? Tchaikovsky ? Did they, like me, find that words are inadequate?**_ Sherlock couldn't really recreate that now, so he settled for brushing his fingers over his inner thighs, where the hair on John's legs had tickled him while they kissed. _"Sherlock, wait. I haven't done this before and I don't want to hurt you, I need you to tell me if I'm doing something wrong, okay? You sure you're ready?"_ The slight quaver in John's voice vibrated against Sherlock's lips on his throat. The depth of John's care spread a saccharine warmth through his chest, and the news that this experience was unexplored for John, too, sent something more primal down his spine. He hadn't yet been John's first time for a carnal act. _**"Oh John, I've been ready for three years." **_He had sucked John's finger into his mouth as his hand encircled John's length. John's reaction, as always, was delicious. His head dropped to Sherlock's shoulder, his hot breath puffing out over Sherlock's pectoral with every stroke. John's erection was hot and solid and the skin was silken to the touch as Sherlock pumped and pulled and twisted with his fingers. _**Do you feel this music too, John? Does your skin sing under my touch?**_ Sherlock was already sucking his own finger between his lips, his tongue coating it in slick saliva, just as it had to John's. John had collected himself _("Oh, Jesus, alright, point taken,")_, pulled himself back and pressed his slick fingertip gently against Sherlock's entrance. His other hand had soothingly stroked back and forth across Sherlock's thigh, sending electricity dancing across his skin. His sphincter involuntarily widened and contracted around the finger now in the same way it had then. It was a selcouth sensation, and soon his finger was buried to the knuckle. He withdrew enough to allow a second finger to enter, opening himself in the same way John had opened him. _**"I love the way you open me like I'm a gift for which you have been waiting, John." **_

John's hand had returned to gently stroking Sherlock's erection, and now the shivers of pleasure were constant and his breathing was shallow and uneven. _**Hot. Burning. Sweet. Painful and heavenly.**_ He didn't bother to quieten his sigh. _**"More, John, please."**_ John had obliged, pushing deeper and curling his fingers and _Oh!_ His body bucked now just as it had then, the intense bolt of pleasure shooting up his spine when John hit his prostate, a million nerves singing at the touch. _**"Oh, John, I'm ready, please, now!"**_ He didn't know if he was speaking the words aloud or if they were still in his head, so lost was he to the memory. John had withdrawn his fingers, slicking himself liberally with lubricant. He watched how John's eyes rolled up a little with that touch, and something twisted sensuously in his navel, he ached with need. _**You understand, don't you, John?**_

Sherlock was pumping himself in earnest now as he remembered the feeling of John's head slipping just inside him, and how his hot, heavy length had filled him slowly, allowing him to widen. John's face had been exquisite. His lips slightly parted, his eyes gently crinkled by a smile and locked on Sherlock's as he held the detective's face tenderly. Sherlock wrapped one leg around John's hips, the other foot tracing down the back of John's thigh. _**Again and again, John, you give me more than I ever thought sex could be. This is love.**_ He fought the urge to let his own eyes roll back as the hot, sweet sensations sent shudders rolling through his body, his hands grasped John's shoulders and neck as he brought their lips together again with a moan._**If a stranger observed my body tomorrow, John, they would see my swollen lips, my hair disheveled, and the lovebites you leave me with. They would see the pale blue on my hips where your fingers have held me. They would not know the melody that materializes with your contact.**_ When John was completely inside, Sherlock had pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and John had moaned and thrust involuntarily. _**Oh, just there. That's all of existence.**_ Sherlock groaned brokenly and ground desperately up and down against John, his long fingers digging into John's back and hips, his skin sliding tightly around John's length, and all sanity was relented, they were both animals lost to the sensation, nothing but moans and grunts and deep thrusts and the sweet melody of lust. Both of them were developing a sheen of sweat, and everything was hot and slippery and he panted the words into John's lips, tongue, jawline, throat, _**"You've made an ignicolist of me, John. This fire could not be described with words, only a hymn. Do you think I could translate this music? Ohh!, This is much greater than any melody I have never written. How would it start? Ungh - your moans and mine **_**acciacatura**_** \- gnfh - the same as our flesh?"**_ Sherlock's fingers found his prostate _again and again_ just as John's length had, hot and heavy, and he was definitely moaning aloud now, and his right hand stroked and twisted in time to John's rhythm, he was losing all grip on reality and the melody in his head was soaring, _**"Oh, John, you'll make me go deaf, this crescendo is too much, too intense, too exquisite, please John, I'm so close, please- "**_

Sherlock's desperate pleas had undone John, and he came apart with gasp and a groan, and Sherlock could feel his every twitch and involuntary shudder inside him, John's teeth sunk into his shoulder, and _**Oh, there it is-**_he was coming harder than he ever had before, wave upon wave of pleasure rolling through his body and spilling between their chests, and the melody in his head was shimmering, soaring as he gasped for air, his hands gripping John's hair for dear life and his thighs shivering and squeezing around John's hips. They stilled, panting and locked in a tight embrace, and then there was silence. _**Blessed, exquisite silence.**_

Sherlock opened his eyes, and the empty cottage rematerialised around him, the fire burning low in the grate sending light dancing across the ceiling. His head was blissfully quiet, and his heartbeat was slowing along with his breath. He made his way to the shower, where he cleaned himself off and stood under the scorching spray for a few minutes. _**John, you are a marvel.**_ When he realised he was nodding, his eyelids becoming heavy, he turned off the water. He tumbled back into bed and typed a text to John before succumbing to a deep slumber.

* * *

John's phone chimed again. The message made him chuckle as he realised that Sherlock had been thinking about New Year's Day.

_"__**Thank you, my love.**__ I still need to write that melody down. S."_


End file.
